THE CAT'S MAW

CHAPTER III

III:  OF PIE AND PLEASANTRIES

The doorbell rang, its cheery bing-bong echoing through the house and drifting out the windows.

Billy was on the patio, propped up on a padded chaise lounge beneath a cloth umbrella in the shade. It tilted just enough to keep the sun off his upper half, leaving his bare leg free to tan or burn as he saw fit. He wasn't too concerned either way, as the lump of fur stretched out between his knees claimed his undivided attention.

"Enid, thank you for coming over," his mother's voice carried from the front door and through the kitchen. "Oh, isn't that lovely! You didn't have to go to the trouble of bringing anything. Let me help you with that." Even from the deck, Billy could almost hear the muscles in her face straining with the weight of such politeness.

The cat's ears twitched at the sound, tilting towards it like two tiny, fuzzy radar dishes. Its eyes were half-open, pupils thin as pins in the sunlight, with the second fleshy lids retracting slowly to the corners of its eyes. 

"No trouble at all," Mrs. Thomas spoke, followed by her laboured shuffle into the kitchen. "I've been waiting for the right time to pop by, and this is the least I can do. I'll just set this down here. Now...do you have some plates, and a knife?"

Billy perked up. Enid Thomas — still spry and sharp, and the fastest apple-corer in town at 88 years young — was known in these parts as 'the Cat Lady of Appleton'. In a town as small as theirs it wasn't that hard to stand out, and Enid, with her extended feline family, certainly did that.

People came from all over (from as far as Bridgetown!) to see her cats. She was happy for the seasonal crowds, as it meant regular donations for her sizeable four-legged brood. Locals were known to drop off litters of kittens that they couldn't find homes for. Some folks brought in strays. Others abandoned the injured (or cats deemed too 'temperamental'), instead of taking them to the pound in Middleton where their days would surely be numbered.

Whatever the case, Enid Thomas loved them all, and all were welcomed in her home. And, every once in a while that special love rubbed off on visitors, and someone would make an adoption. Usually it was a parent with an excited child, or a recent widow or widower who longed for some agreeable company. Billy understood them the best.

There was a clinking of china and glassware in the kitchen, and the sound of ice cubes cracking and tumbling into a big glass pitcher. The boy hadn't had much of an appetite since the accident — hospital food did its best to erase all pleasure related to eating – but now things were different.

Now there was pie and lemonade.

The kitchen noises got the cat's attention. It stretched its limbs, hind paws jutting straight back and front ones lunging out ahead, with toes spread and claws out. With a yawn, its eyes clamped shut and its jaw opened wide, a curled pink tongue unrolling between rows of sharp, pearly teeth.

Billy didn't know why, but he could never look away when he saw a cat's teeth. On his more whimsical and academic days, he had chalked it up to 'genetic memory' — of his ancient ancestors thousands and thousands of years ago, fleeing from saber-toothed tigers that prowled the night. But right now, stretched out on the soft blue cushion, this was just a happy tabby that looked like it was trying to fly.

"Look who's come for a visit," said his mother, carrying a crowded tray out to the patio table. She placed it down, and Billy drooled a little at the sight – fresh lemonade, scoops of vanilla ice cream, thick wedges of cheddar cheese, and three huge slices a Enid Thomas' brown-sugar-and-cinnamon-crusted tart apple pie.

"Oh goodness, will you look at that," Enid said, stepping slowly onto the wooden deck. "Lounging in the sun like a movie star. The way you spoke, Elizabeth, I was prepared for much worse!"